


and it's you who hangs the moon

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: 5 Things, Drinking, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Pining, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14353098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Andrew falls in love with Steven in the spring.(or, a year in the life of Andrew and Steven, as told through five moments and the passing of the seasons.)





	and it's you who hangs the moon

**Author's Note:**

> I intended on dipping my toe into this fandom with a short fic, and instead, this happened. any typos or miscellaneous fuck-ups are all mine. let me know if I've forgotten any important tags.
> 
> title from [Hangs The Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmkwDjNo8w4) by Arkells.

Andrew falls in love with Steven in the spring.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, nothing but pastel blue stretching overhead like the canopy for the world’s largest tent. They’re doing another sushi episode, and their mid-range restaurant is in Huntington Beach, close enough to the ocean that Andrew can taste the salt on his tongue. The front of the restaurant is lined with plate glass windows that look out onto the patio and the street beyond, onto a world that somehow seems entirely removed from Los Angeles even though they’re practically within a stone’s throw of the place. Traffic is slower and less chaotic, and the people dining at the small, sun-soaked tables dotting the patio seem more at peace, like they’re truly enjoying themselves and not just rushing through lunch in order to move onto other things.

It’s a pace that Andrew could really get used to, but sadly, they’re heading right back up the highway once they’re done here; their last restaurant is in the heart of Beverly Hills, and while Steven has been characteristically vague about what exactly awaits them there, Andrew is sure that it’s going to be borderline ridiculous, absurdly extravagant and completely delicious.

But that’s still a few hours away. For now, they’re taking a momentary break from filming, because Adam is in the kitchen, getting some shots of the actual food preparation. It’s a process that Andrew is particularly fascinated by; it’s almost soothing, watching other people cook, watching their fingers carve and slice and move with nothing less than absolute sureness and fluidity, like it’s as easy to them as twisting open a door or turning on a tap. Unfortunately, the kitchen is cramped enough that the two of them would just get in the way, so instead, they’re waiting in one of the booths that march along the massive windows.

The booth is considerably larger than some of the spaces they’ve had to fit themselves into, but despite the space and the lack of cameras, they’re both sitting on the same side, Andrew’s arm stretched out along the top. The leather against their backs is toasty from the sunlight streaming through the glass, and Andrew is only made warmer by the fact that he’s pressed against Steven from hip to knee. Even though Steven shifts often, never stays still for longer than a few seconds, he always comes back, always bumps their knees together. He’s sitting on the outside of the booth, chatting away to one of the servers like they’ve been best friends since childhood, merrily discussing food and movies and basketball.

Frankly, Andrew is pretty sure that Steven could start a conversation with anyone, anywhere, and have them wrapped around his finger in a matter of mere moments.

The sunlight pouring through the glass like a waterfall is striking Steven’s profile, splaying across his cheekbones like a lover’s palm and making his silver hair glint and glow like a precious metal. As Andrew watches, Steven’s mouth slowly curls into a smile, and a laugh that is totally and utterly genuine, as authentic as the gold that seems to decorate half the food they eat on the show, bursts from his chest. He leans into Andrew’s side and ducks his head, still laughing.

In that moment, as the heat from Steven’s body soaks into his ribs and the hollow points of his chest, Andrew become aware of two things.

Firstly, all he would need to do to drape his arm around Steven’s shoulders is lower it a few inches. It would be effortless to drop it there and tug him even closer, until they’re illuminated by the same sunbeams and surrounded by the same dust motes.

Secondly, and he knows this like he knows his own name, is that he is absolutely and undeniably in love with Steven.

Before that knowledge can impact him too deeply, Adam and the chef emerge from the kitchen, and Andrew closes that part of his mind off so that he can focus on the task at hand, on the performance he needs to give the camera.

Still, despite his best efforts, he slips up a few times between the time they leave the restaurant and the time they wrap the episode. There are a few moments where the knowledge seeps into his mind again, where it’s all he can focus on: when Steven laughs helplessly at one of his terrible puns, when the candlelight at the last restaurant illuminates his eyes, when he casually steals a sip of Andrew’s champagne after he drinks his own too fast.

Each time, the dark eye of Adam’s camera reminds Andrew to reel himself in before it becomes too obvious, and only later that night, when he’s back at his apartment, sitting on the couch with a glass of scotch and the television down low, alone but for his thoughts, does he allow himself to do some introspection.

He knows very well that he didn’t just fall in love with Steven because the sunlight was in the right place in the sky. This has been building since before the first episode he appeared in, when he let Steven talk him into this whole experience.

He allows himself the time it takes to finish his drink to comb through particular moments, to pick out instances and events that, in retrospect, clearly serve as proof that this isn’t so much an epiphany as it is an incredibly delayed realization.

Once he sets the empty glass down on his coaster, he shuts all of those thoughts out again, because regardless of how long this has been building for, he isn’t going to do anything about it. His own feelings, whatever they are, aren’t worth prioritizing over the show. It wouldn’t be fair to Adam or Steven; neither of them deserve to have a project that they’ve both worked so hard on be torpedoed because Andrew’s brain decided to fall in love without his express permission.

So he pours himself another glass of scotch, turns the volume up, and promises himself that, even if he can’t keep the thoughts entirely out of his mind, he’ll keep them out of his mouth and away from the camera.

&.

Andrew almost breaks his promise in the summer.

It’s so hot that the air is shimmering, as if a portal from a fantasy world is going to materialize at any moment. The grass filling the spaces between the sidewalks and roads is yellowing and dying, and it’s probably only a matter of days before the news fills with stories of fires in the hills.

They’re filming another alcohol episode: this time, it’s whiskey. By the time they head off to their high-end drink, Matt behind the wheel, Andrew is feeling marginally less than sober. Adam is tipsy, voice a fraction louder than usual, but still has most of his wits about him by necessity. 

Steven, on the other hand, is well on the way to being full-out drunk.

He’s squeezed between them, thigh a warm, firm line against Andrew’s, lavender hair taking on the colors of the neon signs they pass. He laughs his way through the whiskey fact, tries to make a joke and gives up halfway through, then laughs some more. There’s a loose thread protruding from the seam of Andrew’s jeans, a few inches above his knee, and for a few moments, once he’s done with his laughing fit, Steven tugs at it aimlessly, only relents when Andrew gently pushes his hand away with the distinct thought that it’s too damn hot for him to deal with this.

The restaurant is all sleek glass and polished metal, modern architecture at its finest. There’s a patio jutting out from the side, towards the ocean. Down on the beach, there’s a circle of what is probably faux driftwood surrounding a fire pit sporting a flicker of flame that makes Andrew sweat just to look at.

Steven, of course, falls for it immediately.

“Adam!” he yells once they’ve piled out of the car, waving an arm towards the beach. “Do you think we could do the outro down there?”

“Probably,” Adam answers, brows scrunching together. “Should be able to figure something out.”

Andrew groans, but when Steven turns to look at him with a quizzical expression, Andrew just waves him off. He’s sure it will look great on camera, even if the additional heat from the fire makes him spontaneously combust. 

They have their drinks at one of the patio tables, tucked into the corner with their backs facing the dark vastness of the ocean. The conversation around them is hushed and muted, accompanied by the gentle clink of glasses, the scrape of silverware against plates, and the quiet thrum of the waves hitting the sand. When Andrew looks up, he can just barely see the moon through the light pollution staining the sky, a near perfect sphere hidden behind a thick layer of gauze.

In another universe, even with the heat, this could be a near perfect night for a date.

He tries not to let his mind wander too far in that direction, but it proves to be difficult; the table is so small that they almost have to share a chair just to fit into the same shot. Steven is unreasonably warm at the dozen points they’re touching, so warm that Andrew forgets to focus on the taste of the whiskey flooding his mouth and is only able to get out a hum of approval before he goes in for a second sip. This time, he’s able to pick out some details, notes of peppermint, salt and chocolate, all of it tied together with deep, bold smoke. It tastes like the kind of drink a spy would have at the end of a mission gone well, in front of a fireplace, shirt unbuttoned and battle scars twinging.

Steven’s impression is significantly different.

“I think this is what love would taste like if you could bottle it up. Like...” Pausing, he takes another smooth sip, closes his eyes and sighs happily. “Yeah. That’s love right there, man. The whole package, right up to dying in bed together.”

Andrew’s head unexpectedly starts to ache.

“I think that’s genuinely the most morbid thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he says, clearing his throat and staring at a point over Steven’s shoulder so that he doesn’t have to deal with the bright smile staining his face.

“No!” Steven emphatically shakes his head and gestures wildly, nearly slops some of the whiskey over the rim of the glass. Somehow, during his flailing, his ankle ends up tucked around Andrew’s, which makes it the thirteenth place they’re touching. “It’s not morbid, it’s _beautiful_.” 

“I think we need Adam to be the tiebreaker here.”

“Fine.”

Even after they take over camera and sound so Adam can sit down, Andrew can still feel Steven’s heat burning into all the places they were touching. 

“You’re both wrong,” Adam declares quietly after he’s taken two careful sips. Despite their best efforts, he refuses to discuss his interpretation, just smiles and takes his equipment back so that they can head down to the fire pit, which is free of any other people (probably because they’re all too sane to be around fire when the air itself feels like it could catch aflame at any moment). The sand shifts underneath them as they walk down the gentle slope, and at one point, Steven’s hand drops heavily onto Andrew’s shoulder and lingers for a beat too long.

“Why is it so slippery?” he asks, fingers briefly catching on the sleeve of Andrew’s shirt as his hand slips away.

“Because you’re drunk,” Andrew replies, thankful when the ground levels out. Even then, they bump together once, twice, three times before they make it to their destination. Steven drops heavily down onto one of the fake logs and sighs contently, head tilted back towards the sky. Behind him, the ocean stretches out, boundless and vast and utterly terrifying, and Andrew can’t help but stare at it as he licks the lingering taste of whiskey out of his own mouth.

Before he can fall too deeply into the sight, Steven leans forward and tugs at the knee of his jeans.

“C’mon, sit down with me.”

Tearing his eyes away from the darkness, Andrew does, leaves an inch or so of space between them. He’s just gotten himself comfortable when Adam frowns a little, staring down at the camera.

“This isn’t going to work. I need another lens.”

“I can get it,” Steven says, scrambling to his feet and nearly stumbling right into the fire. Adam just stares at him until Steven sits back down, hands held up in surrender. “Alright, fine. I’ll wait here.” 

“Good. I’ll let Matt know we’re almost done.” With that, he heads back across the sand towards the restaurant. Once he’s out of sight, Steven hums quietly, leans back like he’s going to stare up at the sky again, and nearly goes toppling backwards into the sand. Automatically, Andrew throws his arm out and tosses it around Steven’s back before he can actually fall off the bench. 

It’s a move that is very bad for the promise he made to himself.

He’s had his arm around Steven’s shoulders a few times, and vice versa, but never for long, and this is definitely _not_ Steven’s shoulders; rather, Andrew’s arm is draped just above his waist. If he moved his hand a few inches, he thinks he could press his fingertips against Steven’s hipbone, maybe trace the jut of it.

Before he can pull himself out of danger, Steven drops his head onto Andrew’s shoulder.

“I think I drank too much,” he says, rubbing his cheek against the sleeve of Andrew’s t-shirt like a cat. His hair, spiked up but somehow still wispy and soft, just barely brushes against the side of Andrew’s neck, like a dandelion wisp or a breath from someone’s mouth.

“Are you just realizing that now?” Andrew asks, trying to breathe steadily even though his whole body feels pulled tight. “Because I knew that before we even left the first place.” Of their own accord, his fingers tighten on Steven’s waist, and the thought of what the skin stretched taut over Steven’s hipbone might feel like invades his mind. Steven laughs and winds his arm around Andrew’s waist, twists his fingers into the hem of Andrew’s shirt until a sliver of his own skin is exposed to the night air.

“Shut up,” he retorts before he goes quiet. Andrew has a quip on the tip of his tongue, something about being _so_ terrified of Steven’s oh-so-intimidating threat, but something about the combination of the quiet lapping of the ocean against the shore, the flickering of the flames and the slow, steady drag as Steven continues to rub his cheek against Andrew’s shoulder tells him that now is not the time, even though it feels like he’s in too deep, like he’s waded into said ocean and is staring up at the surface from forty meters down.

Involuntarily, Andrew’s thoughts turn to how easy it would be to catch Steven’s mouth with his own. All he’d have to do is twist his head and lean down a little. 

He can’t do that. He made himself a promise.

But he wishes with everything he has that he could break that promise, even before Steven tugs at his shirt until Andrew glances down at him.

“I really don’t want this day to end,” he says quietly, grinning unabashedly, fingers still aimlessly tightening and loosening in the hem of Andrew’s shirt.

“The day ended a few hours ago,” Andrew replies, forcing himself to turn and look into the fire so that he doesn’t have to think about how the flames flicker and catch in Steven’s dark eyes. He means to leave it at that, but the next words slip from his mouth as easily as breathing. “But I think I know what you mean.”

“Yeah?” There’s something in Steven’s voice that’s more than just an idle acknowledgment, something that makes Andrew wonder if maybe he should just go for it, consequences be damned.

Before he can make a decision one way or another, Adam returns with Matt in tow, the two of them talking softly about how best to light the shot, and Andrew slides away from Steven and prepares what he wants to say so that they can get through this as fast as possible. 

In the light of morning, back at the office, when the three of them gather around Adam’s computer to start sorting through all of the footage, Steven doesn’t say a thing about what happened around the fire pit.

Consequently, neither does Andrew. 

&.

Andrew breaks his promise in the fall.

They’re back in New York for three episodes. The breeze winding through the streets carries the sharp bite of impending winter on it and easily cuts through Andrew’s multiple layers. The city is screamingly loud, a cacophony of honking horns and rumbling trains melded together with yelling and sirens. Mountains of garbage bags sit on the curbs and make the air even more rank than usual. The trees aren’t exactly plentiful, but the leaves on the ones that do exist are rapidly bleeding from green to orange and red. 

They’ve finished filming the first episode, which was pancakes, and Andrew is so full (and a little tipsy) that the thought of having to repeat it all tomorrow for pierogis makes him mildly nauseated. The hotel is still four blocks away, but they’ve already declared their winners (all three of them had a different choice - no _worthage a trois_ this time around) and wrapped up filming. Steven’s hair, back to blonde for the time being, is rustling in the wind, and now that the cameras are off, he’s _really_ being his typical touristy self. He stares at every bodega they pass like there’s profound knowledge waiting on the other side of the advertisement cluttered windows, pauses in the middle of the sidewalk so he can snap a picture of a statue or a piece of graffiti. It’s slowing their progress down and earning them more than a few disgruntled looks, which means that Andrew should be wracking his brain for ways to speed the journey up.

Instead, he’s oddly entranced by it. There’s something almost lovely about the way Steven finds beauty and excitement in the most mundane of things, how his attention is drawn to benches with dedication plaques affixed to them and to interesting looking signs, things Andrew is sure that the residents of this neighborhood stopped noticing a long time ago.

They’re two blocks away when the traffic light turns red, and Andrew stops at the edge of the sidewalk, midway through talking to Adam about some of the footage from the night.

Steven, on the other hand, is too busy staring up at an old advertisement lettered on the side of a building to realize that he’s about to walk straight into oncoming traffic.

He’s two steps onto the asphalt before Andrew realizes it, surges forward, wraps his hand around Steven’s wrist and yanks him back onto the sidewalk.

“Jesus, what the fuck, Steven?” he asks, Adam echoing the sentiment. His heart is pounding against his ribs, like _he’s_ the one who just toyed with death (or serious injury). Someone, presumably the driver of the car that Steven almost walked out in front of, yells something as they drive by in a screech of tires, but Andrew hears it as no more than an abstract sound, ambient noise like the trains and the rest of the traffic. He’s more focused on the fact that he can feel Steven’s pulse throbbing underneath his fingers, that Steven is looking at him with wide eyes, mouth a little slack.

Andrew’s relief is so strong that he almost leans forward and kisses Steven right there and then, on his parted lips.

Instead, he says, “You have to be more careful.” He tells himself to drop Steven’s wrist so they can continue on their way back to the hotel to get some sleep.

He doesn’t let go.

“Probably.” Steven exhales loudly and carefully slides his wrist out of Andrew’s grip, and Andrew sighs, grateful that Steven can do what he apparently doesn’t have the strength to.

Before he can celebrate too much, Steven’s fingers slowly slot between Andrew’s, and Andrew’s chest goes too tight, like a metal band has been strapped across it. He doesn’t dare look down to see how their hands fit together; he’s convinced that doing so would shatter the moment like a glass on a tile floor. Instead, he looks at Steven’s face and is met with a soft smile, one that doesn’t seem entirely suited to the harshness surrounding them and the adrenaline still flooding through Andrew’s circulatory system.

It’s possibly the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. 

Once they start walking again, they go back to discussing some of the footage from the day and their plans for tomorrow. It almost feels like just another ordinary night.

The only difference is that, for the remainder of the walk, Andrew’s hand remains clasped with Steven’s, swinging slightly in time with their footsteps.

The hotel is quiet when they return. The hallway outside their rooms is empty, and their footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet underfoot. Even though it’s late, they should do some more work, go through some of the dailies or look over the itinerary for the next day to make sure they haven’t missed any crucial details.

But before Andrew can suggest any of that, Adam stops at the door for his room and digs his key out of his pocket.

“I’m tired. Gonna go to bed.” His eyes flick back and forth between them, and the barest hint of a smile appears on his mouth. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Andrew replies, in sync with Steven, as Adam opens the door and slips inside. Once his door shuts with a soft click, the hallway is so quiet that Andrew swears he can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, hear the blood rushing through his veins. The quiet makes him feel like they’re in some kind of bubble, one that might pop with a single wrong word or gesture.

They continue to hold hands as Steven walks towards his own room. Once they’re at his door, he turns around so that he’s facing Andrew head-on. Andrew tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows heavily, and his mind briefly wonders what it would be like to feel that bob against his mouth, his fingertips.

“I should go,” Steven says quietly, tongue momentarily darting out to lick his lips. He doesn’t make any move to pull away. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Andrew’s other hand itches with the urge to touch Steven somewhere, anywhere, but he forces himself to keep it at his side. “Should probably get some sleep.”

“Probably.” Steven’s free hand darts into the pocket of his jacket and rummages, material shifting and tenting, until it emerges holding his room key. He attempts to jam it into the lock blindly, but it bumps into the door once, twice, three times, and he groans.

“Do you want me to do that?” Andrew asks quietly. He really hopes that Steven hears the underlying meaning, the _do you want me to come in_ , hopes that they’re on the same page.

“I got it.” Steven glances away long enough to thread the key into the slot, which lights up green. He lets go of Andrew’s hand just long enough to twist the door open, then hooks his fingers into the front of Andrew’s jacket and tugs him into the semi-darkness of his room. 

Steven kisses him before the door is even fully closed. It’s tentative, soft, really nothing more than a brush of lips, but it warms Andrew from the inside out like he’s swallowed coals. He’s wanted this for so long, done his best to shove every errant thought about it out of his mind, but no matter what happens after this point, he knows one thing.

He’s never going to forget this.

After a moment, Steven pulls away, just far enough that they’re no longer touching but still close enough that Andrew can feel Steven’s breath brushing against the corner of his mouth. Andrew opens his eyes and slowly curves one arm around Steven’s waist.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He knows Steven well enough to be sure that this isn’t some kind of prize, a reward for Andrew yanking him out of harm’s way, but he doesn’t want this to be a thing Steven might regret. No matter how much _he_ wants it, if Steven is anything less than one hundred percent certain, Andrew is going to stop this in its tracks before they go past the point of no return.

“Yeah,” Steven murmurs, sliding his fingers up to the zipper of Andrew’s jacket and tugging it down. “Absolutely. I’m sure.” Andrew takes a deep breath and slides his arm away from Steven so that he can shrug out of his jacket. He drapes it over the back of the chair pushed into the small desk near the door and reaches for Steven’s. There’s no zipper, only snaps (because Steven is just that absurd, and while he’d never admit it, except perhaps under torture, Andrew adores it), and the sound each makes as Andrew pops them open seems to echo throughout the room. 

“Okay.” Once his fingers open the bottom snap, Steven slides his arms free, drops the jacket on top of Andrew’s, wraps his fingers into Andrew’s sweater and pulls him back towards the bed. Andrew sinks down on the edge of the mattress, directly in the faint orange glow of a neon sign attached to the building across the street. He’s prepared to lie back and slide up towards the pillows, pull Steven after him. Instead, Steven carefully slides into his lap, knees digging divots into the mattress on either side of Andrew’s hips. Andrew’s breath catches in his throat as he instinctively curls his hands around the back of Steven’s thighs.

Even though he can hear the traffic outside and the faint thud of someone above them dropping something on the floor, it feels like there’s nothing real outside of this room, like this is what his whole life has been building to: this exact moment, bathed in neon, holding Steven and trying to remember how to breathe.

“The whiskey episode,” Steven says quietly, curling his hands around the sides of Andrew’s neck, thumbs brushing along his jaw. “At the fire pit. Remember?”

“Every second of it.” It should probably be embarrassing, how quickly it spills from Andrew’s mouth, but there’s no point in lying. That’s the worst kind of foundation to build a relationship upon.

“I really thought you were going to kiss me.” Steven laughs quietly, and his nose bumps against Andrew’s. Their mouths brush together a moment later, but even though it pains him to hold back, Andrew doesn’t crane forward into it.

Instead, he murmurs, “Did you want me to?” Steven nods enthusiastically and wholly, the way he does absolutely everything in his life. 

“Yeah. That night and every night since then. Most nights before that too, actually.”

Andrew barely manages to bite back a groan of absolute need. It’s overwhelming, the thought that they could have been doing this all along, that his promise to himself was unnecessary, that he wasn’t the only one who spent innumerable nights thinking about this. 

“Sounds like we have a lot of nights to make up for then.” A fire truck, sirens screeching and roaring, flies down the street at that moment, and in the momentary swirl of red flashing lights, Andrew sees the most beautiful grin he’s ever seen lighting up Steven’s entire face.

“Yeah,” he says, mouth skimming against Andrew’s. “So let’s start now.”

By the time they finally fall asleep, still half-dressed and tucked under the heavy duvet, the neon and halogen suns of the city have almost been replaced by the real thing.

&.

Andrew discovers that he isn’t the only one wholly and fully in love in the winter.

They’re between seasons, and while there’s always other projects they could be working on, they’ve taken the day off instead. It’s been dreary and cold all day, sky streaked with heavy gray clouds promising impending rain. Andrew fully intended on running some errands with Steven before they settled down for the night, intended on grabbing some supplies and wine for dinner, but they haven’t left Andrew’s bed in hours. There’s a faint orange glow seeping through the blinds from the streetlights outside, and the flickering light from Andrew’s muted television is flitting around Steven’s hair, which is now the pastel pink of cotton candy. 

Their shirts are somewhere on the floor, dotting the carpet like anthills. Andrew’s belt is dangling over the edge of the mattress, and his pants are undone, but neither of them have made a move to slide them off. Steven is on top of him, resting in between his splayed apart legs, just as hard as Andrew. His hips are slowly rocking down, but even though each touch sends a bolt of pleasure coursing through Andrew’s entire body, he doesn’t feel any urgency to speed things up. He wants to savor this moment for as long as he can, wants to simply feel Steven’s body against his, feel his muscles shifting underneath his fingertips, hear and swallow whole his soft moans and louder gasps.

Steven’s neck is dotted with marks that are almost the same color as his hair, surrounded by redder, bumpier patches of beard burn that Andrew occasionally does his best to sooth with the press of his mouth and the drag of his tongue. When he needs to take a break from making out to breathe, he contents himself by ducking his head to the base of Steven’s throat, which is still remarkably free of marks and bruises, and carefully starts working the skin there between his teeth and tongue. He drags his fingers down Steven’s back to the base of his spine and presses into the dip there, and Steven gasps out Andrew’s name and rocks his hips down harder, hard enough for Andrew to bury his groan into Steven’s skin. 

Eventually, they switch positions again, so that Andrew is hovering over Steven. He intends on sitting back on his knees for a moment, just to take in the view of Steven flushed and sprawled out underneath him, but before he can make it that far, Steven’s long fingers drag down his chest and pause just below Andrew’s navel. It’s one of Andrew’s most sensitive spots, which is a fact Steven has already acquainted himself with, and Andrew isn’t surprised to see that there’s a hint of a smug grin on his mouth when he starts tracing tiny circles there.

What he _is_ surprised by is what comes out of his own mouth.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty in Steven’s voice, and when Andrew glances up into Steven’s eyes, he can’t see anything there that might indicate that Steven is being anything less than totally honest.

That’s enough to make the tiny voice of doubt in the back of Andrew’s mind go silent again. He leans in for a kiss that quickly turns open-mouthed and heated, a flurry of dragging tongues and teeth snagging on lips. The next time he leans back to breathe, eyes still closed, Steven’s fingers creep a little lower, until they’re just underneath the band of Andrew’s briefs.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, pressing another kiss to the corner of Andrew’s mouth, then to the line of his jaw. Andrew nods and turns his head to the side, sighs when Steven’s mouth drifts down to his neck and hovers over his pulse point.

“Please.”

Steven’s hand slides fully into his briefs and wraps around him, and Andrew lets out a shuddering breath, quickly loses the ability to think of anything that isn’t directly related to Steven and his talented fingers.

By the time they finish and get cleaned up, the long awaited rain is lashing against the windows, accompanied by cracking thunder, and Andrew officially scraps all of his plans for a lavish dinner and orders in instead.

He can’t think of any other way that he’d rather spend the night.

&.

Andrew falls even further in love in the spring.

They’re doing three episodes in Ottawa, and even though it’s mid-April, the city doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo, because it’s below freezing. There’s snow dusting the grass and trees, with more in the forecast. Ice clings to light posts and metal railings. Even wrapped up in multiple layers, BuzzFeed hat pulled down to his eyebrows, Andrew feels like he might never be warm again.

Because their first restaurant is only a few blocks from their hotel, they’d decided to walk it. They’ve done their intro spiel already, and while Adam is doing some pick-up footage, some establishing shots and pans they can use to fill in some gaps, Steven is in full on tourist mode. His head is whipping around, taking in all the buildings around them, the new constructions of metal and glass, the old structures of brick and stone that ooze history. As they pass by the buildings of Parliament, he comes to a stop and stares through the wrought iron fence at the expansive lawn leading up to the buildings themselves.

“Itinerary change,” he announces with a grin, pointing through the fence. “When we’re done at the first place, we’re coming back here to walk it off.” 

“Doesn’t that mean we’d have to backtrack?” Andrew asks, consulting the mental map he has of where their three locations are located in the city.

“Yeah,” Steven answers with a shrug. Somehow, there’s snow frosting the sleeves of his jacket and his hair, which is back to silver. “But c’mon. Look at that. We can’t just leave that behind.” His grin grows even brighter, and he looks effortlessly beautiful, surrounded by a backdrop that Andrew has to admit is nothing less than incredible, cheeks flushed with color. 

Andrew thinks he would give up just about anything to stay in this moment forever.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he sighs fondly as he shakes his head and wraps his arm around Steven’s waist. Steven laughs and leans into Andrew’s side as they start walking again, leaving behind footsteps in the light layer of snow dusting the sidewalk.

“Don’t you mean, ‘I’d like to take you everywhere?’” he responds, speaking into Andrew’s ear and punctuating the words by pressing a kiss underneath his jaw and snaking his arm around Andrew’s waist. 

Even if Andrew wanted to, he doesn’t think he could convincingly deny it.

So he doesn’t try.

“Yeah,” he answers, twisting to press his mouth against the top of Steven’s head. Even though the snow frosting his hair is cold, even though they’re going to have to scrap most of this footage (they went official a few videos ago, but this is still a little more than he’s comfortable with the fans seeing), he doesn’t move away. Instead, he breathes Steven in and keeps him close, as he plans to do forever, before he says, “That’s exactly what I mean.”

**Author's Note:**

> the whiskey they're drinking in part 2 is based on [this](http://www.lcbo.com/lcbo/product/port-ellen-35-year-old-islay-single-malt/409599#.WtJv24jwbIU). I've never drank it, because I am not a fancy person, but there's a fun fact. 
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] and it's you who hangs the moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15164057) by [Shmaylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmaylor/pseuds/Shmaylor)




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